The frigid wind lightly ruffled my hair, showing early signs of fall. It was the beginning of September, and soon, the leaves would be changing color, the night would greet us sooner, and clothes would become thicker as it steadily cools. For me, it marked the arrival of a new semester in university; a bleak repetitive cycle of attending classes, studying, and working as a waitress at Frankie's Bar and Grill.
"You look chipper," Liz quipped next to me as we walked along the sidewalk, her hands stuffed in her pink frilly sweater. Her blond curls bounced along as her short legs struggled to keep up with mine. It still baffled me that we shared DNA. She was so sugary sweet, my cousin probably shat glitter and puked sunshine and rainbows.
Ignoring her pointed comment, I asked, "Where is this place?"
"It's on campus. We're almost there," she explained patiently, already used to my surliness.
Having spent most of our childhood together, she was probably the only person on this planet capable of tolerating my particular brand of crabbiness. Eventually, even blood ties weren't enough for her to endure my moods, and she moved on to greener pastures, mainly because Uncle Pete was convinced I was part of a satanic cult.
When I told him my membership application was sadly rejected, he looked about ready to spray some holy water on me. However, much to his dismay, it seemed attending the same university renewed my cousin's mission to civilize me, as if my social ineptitude could be fixed.
Here's the issue: I didn't want to be fixed.
Thinking of my current predicament, I sighed morosely. I haven't attended a party in over a year. I grew tired of the scene, preferring solitude and the safety of my apartment walls. My behavior had been qualified as 'unhealthy', but frankly, I didn't have the patience for people. My noisy neighbors used to think I was simply shy and misguidedly tried to coax me into having dinner with them, but they quickly caught on after I told them I had an incurable and deadly allergy to people, so I had to decline, doctor's orders. They wisely never knocked on my door again.
As silence stretched between us, Liz started to fidget next to me. Oh no, she was going to do that thing with her mouth that annoyed the crap out of me: talk.
"It sure is getting chilly," she blurted out.
I rolled my eyes. "Weather? Really, Liz? What's next? Sports, celebrities, latest fashion trends?"
She huffed. "Well you're not exactly easy to talk to," she muttered defensively.
"Sorry, my creators forgot to program in communication skills when they made me," I said casually. I stopped and looked at her, my tone sobering. "Look, I'm just here to supervise, as per requested by your dad. It was either this, or planting a tracking device on you."
She rolled her eyes at the mention of her over-protective father. "I know, but it can't hurt to let loose a little, Jessie." She paused. "I really do appreciate this. I know you don't like these types of things. I just..."
I watched her quietly, knowing what she wanted to say. Liz was by the far the most sheltered person I've ever met. When she first told me she was a 20-year-old virgin, I almost called National Geographic to announce I found a new species. Seriously, she might as well had been shipped off to a convent to let her uterus wither away, god knows her father already acts like a virtual chastity belt. The last time she attempted to bring home a boy for dinner, they found Pete sitting on the porch, arms crossed, his shotgun casually leaning against the wall next to him. Suffice to say, the boy avoided her calls after that.
I sighed and crossed my arms. "Fine, I'll behave. Who knows, maybe I'll even smile."
Liz huffed. "Do you have any expressions other than boredom?"
"I have a plethora of expressions: indifferent, jaded, disinterested, and my personal favorite: apathetic, with a splash of f*ck-off."
She shook her head. "Those are just synonyms for bored, Jessie."
I shrugged my shoulders, unable to deny that.
We finally came to a stop next to a house with large Greek letters above the doorway. I could hear the music blaring form the inside, making me wish I had brought earplugs. Empty beer cans littered the lawn, and I pursed my lips at the sight of a used condom a few feet from me. Classy joint.
"We're here," Liz announced unnecessarily.
"This place? Seriously? What's the souvenir gift, an STD?"
"Okay, you're going to have to stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Being..." she seemed to mull over her answer, "you."
"No, please, tell me how you really feel."
She gave me a cheeky grin and tugged on my arm, dragging me over to the building. We stepped inside, and I immediately recoiled. Someone call the guys in the yellow jumpsuits, because there were some serious toxic smells going on in here. At this rate, the place would go under quarantine by the end of the night. I was going to have to bathe in a tub of f***ing Purell.
While this scene used to be tolerable, I would much rather be curled up on my couch and munching on popcorn while watching Manchester United vs. Liverpool.
Liz's nose wrinkled. "What is that?"
"I think...cat piss, with a hint of puke."
Someone shouldered their way through us, an opened beer can in his left hand and a full pack in his right, and some of the liquid splashed onto my black leather jacket. Typical.
"I'll be right back," I informed Liz, who was busy ogling the scene with undisguised interest. I tapped her shoulder to get her attention and pointed my finger at her in warning. "Don't move," I ordered.
She saluted me as I left in search of a bathroom.
It was then I took notice of just how packed the place was. The townhouse was relatively small, with a living room that had been transformed into a dance floor, a kitchen that wasn't big enough to fit a dining table, and a third room that only had a ping pong table and a dingy couch. Not bad, considering the occupants were living on a student salary.
I elbowed my way to the bathroom and closed the door behind me, taking advantage of the temporary breathing room. After locking the door, I unwound toilet paper and started to wipe off the beer.
Glancing at my reflection, I noted just how different Liz and I looked; no one would have guessed we were related. While she was short, curvy, and blond, I was tall, thin, and dark-haired. While Liz's skin was pale and unsullied, mine was darkened from all the hours spent out in the soccer field. We were like night and day. I had my father's dull brown eyes, and a light dusting of freckles across my cheekbones that partly hid the scar I had acquired as a teenager after getting a cleat to the face. Not that I cared; I wore that sh*t like a badge of honor.
After my jacket was sufficiently dry, I made my way back to Liz.
She was standing there awkwardly, a strained smile on her face as a guy boxed her in against the wall, invading her personal space.
"Beat it, prick," I said firmly.
He turned around, his eyes narrowing. When I merely raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, he slunk away, his tail tucked between his legs.
"Thanks," she mumbled with a scowl. "He was...persistent."
"You have to be firm with those types of guys," I warned her. "When you try to be polite, they take it as an invitation. Next time come with me to the bathroom. There's safety in numbers." I noticed the cup in her hand. "Where did you get that?"
She nodded toward the guy's retreating figure. "He gave it to me."
Scowling, I took it from her. "Always get your own drinks, and make sure it comes from a closed container that hasn't been opened." I set the drink on a nearby table and led her toward the living room, where I spotted some of her friends dancing. They waved at her, motioning for her to join them.
She bit her lip. "You're making me paranoid."
"Don't be. You can have fun, Liz, just be careful. That's all." I gave her a light push toward the dance floor. "Just doing my job," I teased.
She scampered off to dance with her friends, and I took the opportunity to station myself away from the crowd. I checked to make sure she was still visible, then took my phone out and fired off a text to Uncle Pete.
Safe and sound. You owe me.
He replied instantly: She comes back with even a single scratch on her, I'll hang you up by your toes, she-devil.
He truly had a way with words. Come on, you can be more creative than that. I'm almost disappointed.
Slipping the phone back in my pocket, I leaned back against the wall, bracing myself for the long night ahead.